CORONANT.

elysieth​:

♢ ` —       his arm was starting to cramp. hand flexes, the leather crinkling soundlessly as he tucks his elbow into his side. he wonders if it’s possible that hand shakes are out of fashion. maybe it was something that young people didn’t do anymore. it wasn’t as if though jeralt would know about any of those things. it also wasn’t like byleth would know either. his arm hurts. should he back down? was it too forward? maybe the conversation was supposed to go on longer before he did. maybe it was too sharp of an angle. did that make him look unapproachable? ( it wouldn’t have been the first time he was told this. elbow relaxes a margin. less formal. )

      “——— myself?”

      a laugh comes in the form of an exhale.

      lips twitch. his arm falls back down to his side. “———— maybe.” but the implication is given no more thought, byleth only nodding as the stranger clears the air by responding to his next question. hands flatten against his chest, byleth looking down at his own attire. the dark knight was the dark knight because he wore black. he also had a legendary sword. byleth was also dressed in black. considerably over-dressed for the climate that they’re in, but it’s hard to tell. he hasn’t felt warm or cold since his arrival. did that make him also a black knight? that seemed like an awfully uncreative title, even if byleth didn’t care particularly much for his own.

      another light pat. “i should dress in more gray,” byleth replies after a moment. maybe he should scatter some ashes where he walked. he’s sure if he gathered enough from the campfires before they left that they’d have no shortage of it. hands lift, his index fingers pointing upward as he rests his fists at either side of his head. “horns too.” at least it’d make more sense to call him the ashen demon then if people were in the business of more literal names. he didn’t do anything different than anyone else. ( he still can’t place why ’ ASHEN DEMON ’ makes his skin crawl. ) “no, not really. i’m a mercenary.” byleth rests his hand at the hilt of his sword. there wasn’t anything remarkable about him, save for the sword of the creator. “did you —” he pauses, looking at the pier, then to the beach just behind the not-light knight.

      not white knight. maybe not a knight at all.

      “—————— want to challenge me?”

      little about this conversation made sense otherwise.

          so, not professed to be a particularly skilled fighter, and not much of a conversationalist either. not that aless had been either, especially not when he’d first met him, but the initial similarities are fading away by the second. behind the other man, calm inlet waters lap at the columns of the pier and birdcalls pierce, swimming far overhead. leif doesn’t bother responding to the other’s nonsequiter thoughts; they don’t seem to be intended for him, or to invite input ( at least, he doesn’t think so ); and anyway, what would he even say? fortunately, the stranger does address him again eventually, pulling him from the beginnings of wondering how best to extricate himself from this strange meeting he’d gotten himself into.

          ❝ huh? oh— er, no, that’s not what i came here for. ❞ eyes dart to the swordsman’s hand that’s fallen to the hilt of his blade in anticipation — oh, right! the sword!

          shoulders relax as intrigue renews itself in sunspotted umber. ❝ but i meant to ask about your sword as well. where did you find a weapon like that? i’ve never seen anything like it. ❞ its make and texture; it doesn’t even look like it’s crafted from steel, or at least any metal he’s encountered.

                                 that said —

halfjalar​:

[ ... ] He watches as Leif’s quick thinking finds a solution to the - literally and figuratively - big problem they are facing, and nods, listening with a smile as he goes on about the traditions of Leonster. “That is interesting”, he responds, his face expression calm, a light smile everpresent on his lips. “Do you believe it to continue in the future?” He asks as he grabs the stool once Leif is properly seated on his new mount’s back to try his luck with the other gentle giant standing near them. Similarly to how the attempt went for the Leonsterian, the horse barely seems to notice as, using its mane for help, the Mage gets on its back.

… This was not easy. He is woefully out of shape.

He huffs as he gently pats the animal’s neck with affection, his expression growing more serene than before; there is something so pleasant about the sensation of a horse’s coat under his hand, something he had been stripped of for a long time; and it is not until now that he has it back, that he realizes just how dearly he had missed it.

Though seemingly enjoying the petting, the beast shows no intention of moving from its current spot. Azelle chuckles. “Well, this may be a bit of a challenge.”

          the professor hardly seems to fare any better than himself, putting himself up onto an equally stationary animal. curious appraisal reveals that the other animal’s face shows little sign of verve or willingness to jump and caper — not out of maltreatment; it looks simply like these large horses are just native to a torpor that he’s frankly never seen in a steed before. after spending much of his life helping to wrangle finn’s spirited gelding or surrounded by the impatiently churning hooves of the firebranded leonsterian mounts in a cavalry wall biting at the bit for the charge, this feels more like riding a stone wall than an equine.

          ❝ er... ❞

          legs gently squeeze. then try again, with a little more force. leaning his weight forward. a tap of one heel on the underbelly ( the creature’s side is all his feet can reach here ) — every technique used by any rider he’s known goes equally unacknowledged; it’s obvious that, as the stablehand had said, these animals weren’t used to being ridden. ❝ hm— ah. ❞ he leans backwards, this time to search for anything within reach that could be used to tempt the horse forward, but the brace of his arm against the creature’s flank to keep balance had done something, and there’s motion finally beneath him, forcing him to hurriedly shift his weight back.

          to his pleasant surprise, the horse keeps going. plodding, actually, each heavy step of its hooves deliberate and peaceful. ❝ that seemed to work, ❞ he calls back to azelle, being left a few paces behind. ( though he’s not actually sure what, of what he’d done, had been the catalyst, or why. )

          large bones shift awkwardly under his legs; the draft horse’s gait is rough despite the slow pace, each step all but tossing his weight from side to side. definitely not bred for riding. still, he can’t help but grin a little to himself, gently tugging the creature’s mane and ( thankfully, it listens ) guiding it into a circle towards the small stable gate that led out towards the stretch of pasture just beyond the monastery’s walls.

          by the time he arrived, the infirmary was packed nearly shoulder to shoulder, with a line of wounded trailing out the door. all who weren’t white in healer’s robes presented eroded armor and ruddy magic-formed lesions in various conditions, and if the rumors were to be believed, then these weren’t even all of them. fortunately, these being academy students, none had been the lost to the sudden disaster that’d befallen the mission. they had the handful of quick-thinking knights of seiros who had gone with them to thank for that blessing. ❝ sorry, we’re at capacity right now. if you have a medical concern— ❞ 

          he cuts off the weary nurse guarding the doorway with an emphatic headshake. ❝ i’m here to help. ❞

          he’d thought it must be serious if they were asking for anyone with some proficiency in even basic healing spells to lend assistance, and that’s grimly proven when he steps in to see an ashen-faced cleric almost swaying off his feet as he’s told he can go get some rest. hands feeling suddenly too unwieldy for the live stave in his hands tighten around the polished wood; he doesn’t know if he’s worthy of taking a seasoned healer’s place even for a brief shift, but there’s little room for doubt. he understands keenly that in a situation like this, any little effort helps.

          ❝ excuse me. ❞ fortunately, he’s no stranger to battlefield wounds and how to tend them. the other student — she looks a little like tanya, and can’t be too much older than she had been back then, either — hisses sharply as he elevates her injured leg to get at the angry rash spreading down her side and thigh where dark magic had bitten past clothing. ❝ sorry. just a little longer... ❞ the pulse of white magic ebbs from gleaming orb, coaxed by the mutter of a quiet incantation long cemented in muscle memory. the girl lets out a breath between clenched teeth, and he leans over to grab the roll of bandages.

          ❝ what’s... that for? ❞ he hears her ask, and follows her gaze to the stave’s light fading until its next use. past her, the figures of several others tending to similar injuries with hovering hands glowing translucent white reminds him again that things are different here.

          ❝ back in my homeland, we use staves for healing magic. it’s— ❞

          ❝ oh, you’re like— he’s like you, professor! ❞

          perplexed, leif lifts his head; in the din of moving bodies, he hadn’t noticed the arrival — or had he already been here, and he hadn’t seen him? — of familiar middle-aged poise framed in lavender and sage’s robes.

halfjalar​:

[ ... ] And just then, a voice calls out to him; he freezes for a split second before turning to see a face of one he may not yet know particularly well, but inevitably heard of many times, both after and before arriving at the Academy. Instinct taking over, he stands straight in front of him and offers a short bow.

“Lord Leif.”

The Mage smiles lightly before his eyes turn back to the horse, his hand still on its muzzle. “Truly nothing like the sleek and fine Jugdrali destriers, are they? But I’m sure they have plenty merits of their own.” When the Thracian heir brings up the idea of a race, Azelle’s face expresion quickly shifts to that of surprise. “Well… I would be honored, though I will admit I’m woefully out of practice. I will of course do my best to meet your expectations, though! That said…” His eyes travel from the horse to Leif, and back to the animal. “… I am not sure how one would even get on this guy’s back? We might, quite literally, need a ladder.”

          in his eagerness, he must not have recognized the head of scarlet hair and mistaken the smaller stature for that of a peer. he starts when the ‘ stranger ’ turns — oh! it’s... — and hurriedly inclines his own head at the sound of his name from the rare cadence of his own homeland’s speech. ( odd; until now, he never would have considered there to be much similarity between himself and a velthomer, but spending time in a new land with people from every imaginable corner of the world changes things, he supposes. ) ❝ lord a— er, professor... ❞ behind the respectful aversion of eyes flashes an echo of damp walls caked in shadow as much as they are blood, and a hall of stone effigies posed like grotesque art, each face and body affixed in times no longer with them.

                    once statue, once lordling, once anachronism.                     ——— now professor, now purpose.

                                                       ( he still finds it hard to look at him sometimes,                                                           like when eyvel was first returned to them. )

          ❝ my apologies. i didn’t realize it was you. ❞ but in a way, it’s even more fitting, and he musters something like a smile ( what ghosts of ones he’s begun recalling in barest form since leaving behind the land of his forefathers again, anyway; what is it about the soil, the air of the place he loves the most that makes smiles so hard to come by? ). ❝ you might be right. perhaps we can use... ❞ words trail in his wake once he spots and moves for a small stool tucked in a niche beside one of the stalls — unused right now, it looks like — and carries it back towards them. ❝ this should be enough for our needs. ❞

          he continues as he sets it down, pushing with some weight to make sure it doesn’t topple over. ❝ are you familiar with the leonsterian tradition? ❞ a jerk of his head indicates the draft horse’s broad, empty back. the stable hand had mentioned they aren’t for riding, which means they won’t be able to outfit a horse of this size with average tack. ❝ when new horses are brought in, the squires race them first, sometimes even before they’re saddled. i’ve been told the practice comes from agustria, though i’ve never seen it myself. ❞ with that set, he steps up, and from there, it’s just a matter of grabbing firmly onto the beast’s mane and pulling himself with a hop up astride its back. the animal doesn’t protest, barely even stirs, as though leif’s weight was little more than that of a perching bird.

          ❝ i believe you can pick any of the ones here, professor. ❞

darklingdragon​:

The obstinate nature of the man causes the dragon to grind her teeth, hands balling up into fists, taking another frustrated step forward. She opens her mouth to say something, but it seemed as if her movement activated some form of fear within the conman. He takes a step back.

“No, wait, I-” Myrrh stumbles over her words, holding up the hand that wasn’t (still) gripping the stick as if to pacify. But there was a sharp call for the guards from him and she stumbled back in surprise. In her surprise, she bumped the other student who had come to try and help her. 

She looks up at him apologetically. “…Sorry… I got you into some trouble with my silliness…” 

Part of her wanted to say ‘I’ll cover for you, go and run away!’ but at this point it seemed that they had gotten themselves too deep into it to just simply leave. Maybe they could fight all the guard? (Myrrh was positive she could with the help of her dragonstone but that was opening a whole new can.) Perhaps a diplomatic approach of explaining might be best to not get them kicked out.

          where the girl shrinks back, leif draws up to full height, frown darkening to a glower. let him call the guards, if he thinks they would help him! garreg mach is said to be the esteemed center of the fodlan continent; he can’t imagine the guards here would condone the expoitation of a child. ❝ no, you don’t need to apologize, ❞ he lowers his voice enough to reply. ❝ this man tricked you, and he should answer for it. ❞ they’re not the ones in the wrong here, so they have no reason to run as though they’re guilty. still, as the shuffle of firm footsteps comes through the crowds, revealing an armed patrolman who’s come to answer the call, leif moves to stand subtly in front of the violet-haired girl.

          ❝ is something going on here? ❞ the guardsman looks to the merchant, then the two of them; leif opens his mouth to explain, but the conman is quick-tongued and cuts in hastily before he can even take a breath.

          ❝ sir, thank the goddess. these children are making a ruckus and obstructing my business. i know they’re young, but they’re damaging my property. i can’t do anything at this rate. ❞ leif bristles at the tone — so obsequious; nothing like the contemptuous sneer he’d directed at them seconds ago — as the man holds up the two halves of rope. as if that shows anything!

          ❝ that’s nothing compared to what you were doing! you’re— ❞

          ❝ hey, settle down. ❞ the guard gruffly interrupts, and leif turns in alarm to stern appraisal evaluating him and the girl both. ❝ academy students? you should know better than this. ❞ a gesture at the trickster. ❝ this man’s been here at the festival for years. are you responsible for the equipment? ❞ leif follows the jerk of the guard’s chin towards the severed rope, struggling to stay calm despite rising indignation. he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

          ❝ i am, ❞ he concedes, and quickly continues: ❝ but this man is running an unfair game. he blindfolded this girl and was pulling the balloon out of her reach. he only wanted to take her money! ❞

          if he had hoped that might incense the guard into finally listening to him, he’s met with a frustrating lack of affect. expression unchanging, the guard looks as though he couldn’t think of a bigger waste of his time, and only sighs with the arch of a brow. ❝ cheating? ... do you have any proof? otherwise, all i see here is property damage that you just admitted to. ❞

      ★   //    FRUIT HEADCANONS.  /   @unbalancing-act

leif is, for better or worse, the ultimate ‘shirt off my back for you’ kind of guy. he readily puts others before himself, or goes out of his way to help people who look like they could use it, and it’s as natural to him as breathing. if he was for some reason unable to do so, it’d probably make him really uncomfortable. some of this is just inherent to him; he’s a naturally pure-hearted kid with strong empathy for others, and putting himself in someone else’s shoes isn’t a conscious effort for him. he gravitates towards understanding others, reaching compromises, and prioritizing group welfare and harmony over his own happiness. 

some of it, though, likely comes from his background as well. i’ve talked before about his upbringing putting him in an unorthodox position for a future king, and while he still was to a degree spoiled because of his heritage ( finn prioritizing making sure leif was fed, that he was getting what he needed, etc. ), it’s a hard sell to even call it ‘ spoiling ’ in the circumstances they faced at the time. as i’ve mentioned, he’s well aware that he only survived off the altruism of countless other people, many of them strangers, even at risk to themselves, and this stuck with him, inspiring him to pay it forward. 

in many ways, his liberation army efforts also struggled uniquely — morale was low for much, if not all, of the war, and many parts of the public didn’t have much faith in them. ( game mechanics-wise, leif’s army has very little money, and outfitting your units from shops is unreliable, hence fe5′s unique capture mechanic. the liberation army kept its supplies going largely by stealing from imperial forces. ) this means that everyone had to really help each other out, physically and emotionally, in order for their cause to succeed. tl;dr: leif just hasn’t had many occasions where he’s able to be selfish.

while altruism and a willingness to rush to anyone’s aid sounds like a great quality, it’s actually shot leif in the foot more than it’s helped him. his greatest mistake and failure ( getting dorias killed + half his army annihilated + leonster besieged again shortly after reclaiming it ) was caused by his overzealous determination to go to alster’s aid when they were in dire straits, and to make things even with miranda, alster’s princess, whose life was sort of ruined because her parents sheltered leif when he was an infant.

elysieth​:

♢ ` —       oh, he is not laughing. was it not as funny as byleth thought it was? most of the mercenaries in the company didn’t find the jokes he made to be very funny either. the worrying looks that jeralt gave him also lent itself to that truth —— that his sense of humor might be too dark for the average sellsword, nevermind the average person. he wasn’t joking. at least, partly. the costs were very much true. he’d always thought it seemed a little low, depending on the lengths that they had to go to sometimes to catch their targets. other times, they seemed too high. the discount was also true. the promise of bringing back a body part was not.

      that would cost extra.

      and byleth was not in such a position to be offering discounts to people, especially not without consulting jeralt. maybe they did not have to know. briefly, thoughts wander to his cloak and whether or not the pockets on its interior might be enough to bring back a hand or a foot. a finger? he could bring back a finger. that might be less conspicuous. though, he’s found most people only want those if there’s a ring attached to it. he doesn’t think much of jewelry. he supposes they must be valuable. ah ———————— “you’re not?” byleth asks, the corners of his eyes creasing with surprise. he doesn’t know how to respond.

      so, he watches.

      so, he listens.

      after another stretch of silence, byleth decides what he wants to say. “you are strange.” the mercenary stares, but extends a hand out to him anyway. it’s not a business transaction. but, he isn’t so obtuse to not know when he should be polite. ( nevermind the fact that he’s very much called this stranger strange. ) a pause. byleth looks away. he’s supposed to make small talk. but if he’s quiet for long enough, people will leave quickly enough on their own. still, there’s part of him that wonders. epithets aren’t uncommon. but, he doesn’t very much like theirs. nor what it implies ——— ’ THE ASHEN DEMON. ’ “why is he called the dark knight?” he asks, his hand still outstretched. the mercenary’s follow-up question: did he want to be?

      “are you the,” byleth pauses, looking him from head to toe. “light knight?”

          after two and a half wars, he had ( naively ) thought he’d seen his fair share of oddballs. travels had more or less accustomed him to people’s idiosyncrasies; no two were completely alike, after all. homeros had been — odd. a little uncomfortable. pahn, too. eyrios had been a little different than most, but not unsympathetic, in his own way. but he can’t say he’s ever encountered anyone like this man — it’s just as well, he thinks, that the rumors say he earned his title from his ability on the battlefield; it can’t have been his personality. hard to imagine that a man like this could be much of a commanding force in a fight, but weirder things have happened.

          and he calls him strange?

                                  ❝ ah—— ❞                    that’s new.

          he’s been called a lot of things, the better half of them unflattering here and there, but to his memory, strange isn’t one of them. he’s always thought of himself as... well, pretty normal, all things considered.

                             ❝ are you sure you don’t mean yourself? ❞

          it comes out before he has a chance to hold his tongue, and he does immediately regret the way it sounds ( less offensive in his head ), slight color flushing over his cheeks. after that exchange, he would expect that the man would just get up and walk away, but to his surprise, he continues; is the interest feigned out of courtesy, or does he really want to know? either way, might as well.

jehannanmage​:

[ ... ] “Nice to see you, too,” he chirps back, and his smile mostly reaches his eyes. For all that their last encounter sits awkwardly in the pit of his stomach, he can’t find it in him to stay mad. Ewan had been furious at the time, after the fact, but… surely, Leif had his reasons… and if he plays his cards right now, maybe he’ll get to sate the undying curiosity that the confrontation has seeded and grown in him ever since.

“Of course!” Amicably patting Leif’s shoulder, Ewan whirls and guides them to the table that awaits them. “Anything magic appeals to me,” he tosses in too casually, smirking. A small gibe. Plopping himself into his seat, he quickly tends to their affairs, following along as the proctor instructs - and what enthusiasm the man lacks, Ewan makes up for in spades as he pours their boiling water into cups and spoons leaves into them thereafter. That is how this tea leaf reading works, right…?

“I’m a bit surprised to see you here, though,” he muses aloud. Like, he knows Leif’s into magic, given how they met, but something like this…? Ewan still isn’t sure how much credibility he cares to lend the whole thing, even if he’s heard of stuff similar to it back home. “Well! What element do you think you’ll get out of your hot leaf juice?”

          there’s been no shortage of fights in his friendships past, though this being, to his memory, his first with ewan since meeting him those long months ago at the tops of mountains very different from these that housed fodlan’s most prestigious academy seeds in him a natural apprehension. would he be cordial, biting — like aless and his cousin? frigidity seemed to run in the golden blood of agustria. would he bluster, ready punches, like the simpler approach of his friends from fiana? expressive browns betray his discomfort, much as he wishes he could command confidence as in the stories of his father; an open heart too readily reveals its hand, only a small indignity here but one of the many nails in the coffin of his budding kingship. but ewan responds quickly, more readily than he had expected, catching him off guard where he had anticipated, perhaps, that he’d be served a cold shoulder first.

          it takes all his poise not to start at the friendly pat to his shoulder. ( and maybe fortunately, that proves enough of a distraction for the sidelong barb in ewan’s reply to sail past his notice. ) had he overlooked their disagreement so quickly...? no — the afterimage of a smile that lacked something untraceable is indication enough.

          but ewan whisks away onward, and there’s nothing for it but to go along. he’s already here. so with disquiet gnawing still at his gut, he takes his own spot and watches the tea instead of his friend, wishing that he’d happened across him again anywhere but in a demonstration related to magic. the vibrant enthusiasm written all over tone and expression as he announced he’d begun studying dark magic — and, more than that, that he’d discovered a passion for it; that it was like unlocking a door, he’d found where he excelled — is still fresh in the back of his mind, a bitter scene easily looped.

          ❝ i’m a bit surprised to see you here, though, ❞ he offers, but it sounds rhetorical, and leif lets it fall with little more than a sound of acknowledgment, reaching out once ewan’s finished preparations according to their instructions and letting examination of the cup’s contents be his excuse. but he can’t let the attempts at amicability — however much he wonders to their sincerity — go entirely unanswered, even with the wyvern in the room, so he musters as natural a shrug as he can, swirling the collection of leaves as the water steeps. ❝ i don’t know. i’ve never heard of people being born with an affinity... ❞ he thinks to the list of supposedly known elements that have been unearthed by scholars in other lands: fire, water, wind, ice, earth... then there are others, less intuitive.

         no resident of the jugdrali continent could ever claim to be a stranger to horses. regardless of where one was born, the saying was almost ubiquitous: to own a horse is to own your life. unless one was incredibly determined, crossing the continent’s wide terrains with any kind of expedience was almost unheard of on foot, and forget trying to keep up with an army. he knew all about that one firsthand. there was hardly an established state that didn’t boast a cavalry, and the elite ritter knights unique to each area had tales told of them far and wide. from the horse founding dominion of the lords, rich agustria, birthplace of the mounted knight, to the sleek-coated steeds of velthomer, the sure-footed mountaineers of freege, to leonster’s own animals, hotblooded as the land itself, the joke that there were more horses in jugdral than there were people might almost not be a stretch of the imagination.

         yet, if there was one thing his young life spent traveling had shown him, it was to never assume that he had seen everything.

         ❝ i’ve never seen horses this large before. ❞ or maybe ‘ large ’ wasn’t quite the right word, but nothing back home resembled these animals paraded into the stables before him. they moved less like the fleet-footed creatures he knew and more like the wyverns of thracia, heavy-boned and deliberate, each of their thickly feathered hoofsteps leaving a deep imprint in the rain-softened ground. ❝ they look like they could carry an armored knight into battle. ❞

         the stablehand on duty, a boy who doesn’t look much older than him but who flits around the monastery's menagerie with an ease suggestive of many years of experience, chuckles at his expense, amused by the leonsterian’s owlish stare. ❝ well, they probably could, but these big guys aren’t much for battle. they’re draft horses, helping to pull the heavy carts and ploughs and the like. just one of these could take a wagon of iron from hevring to enbarr! ❞

         he isn’t studied enough on the maps of fodlan to know how far that is, but it sounds impressive. an idea slips into his mind: this isn’t jugdral and their traditions aren’t the same, but as they say, a horse is only as good as its distance. ❝ do you think i could race them? ❞ he asks suddenly, and this time it’s the stablehand’s turn to be surprised. but the notion has already stuck ( and aless isn’t here to outdo him again, he thinks ), and he has one of them by the reins before the other boy can say anything about them not being meant for speed.

         ❝ excuse me! ❞ he’s quick to find someone who looks promising and leads the remarkably patient animal over with a hopeful look. ❝ my apologies for interrupting. i was just admiring these horses — there’s nothing like them in my homeland — and i wondered if you might honor me with a race to test their ability? ❞

verseandrhyme​:

“While your faith in my efforts is unexpected yet welcomed, I would like to think I am not so prideful to disillusion myself from my failures.” Mitama picked up a napkin that was gratefully nearby and held it to her mouth. She spat out the remains of the inedible monstrosity that she had created and carefully folded up the napkin before placing it as far from her reach as possible.

“Perhaps my father’s services are needed.” She mutters thoughtfully to herself as she stares down the offending creation. It would not be the first time she had unintentionally created something with powers beyond mortal control. She doubted it would be the last. Perhaps it would be for the good of all if she found a cave far from their current home and disposed of the fish there, never to harm another man or woman or being again.

Or perhaps not. That may attract bears.

Mitama snorts a laugh. “Thank you, but I fear for your stomach and well-being if you can think of worse.” She replies. It is disappointing. Perhaps she should have listened more when her friends rambled on their cooking preferences.

The absent thought that Shiro of all people was more accomplished in the kitchen than her stung in a particular way.

“Perhaps not.” She agreed. She found the energy to muster up a smile for him at the very least. “It would likely be in our best interest to find ourselves a more…suitable meal than what we just created.”

          fear for his stomach and well-being, huh? his head tilts slightly — a look almost boyish — but the comment is a passing one, so he doesn’t think too deeply of it, nor of the answer that surfaces from the oldest and scantest of his memories. an answer he’d been largely blind to until just a few years prior when it had come to light, despite the nomadic nature of his early years, just how sightless he’d been to the things taking place around him. rather than any judgment, however, it’s curiosity about this girl that rises up in its aftermath. he’d been so caught up in the hopelessness of his kitchen skills earlier that her added presence had been nothing but an irritant. the pink hair, the sudden sensibility — a complete difference from the haughtiness she’d shown earlier — the... he just now notices; are her eyes...?

          the audible ( embarrassing ) rumbling of his empty stomach interrupts his thoughts. ❝ uh, right. that may be best. ❞ helplessly, he glances back to the rejected plate of deceptively inviting fish. where could they find something—?

          ❝ oh, the stalls. the ones on the beach, ❞ he completes aloud, eyes flicking back to her. ❝ this place... it conjures up anything you want, right? ❞ defeating the purpose of a meal earned through effort and work, and any satisfaction that came with it. still, he would have preferred something cooked by hand if anyone could manage it, in the end. food that came about by imagination — something about it just doesn’t seem reliable. like skills granted by chance, or memories... formed by...

          huh. where had that thought come from?

          regardless, if he stands around any longer, she’s going to start thinking strangely of him. so, discarding that for now, he makes towards the doorway, deciding that whatever he can make out of this time now to get to know someone new would be time better spent. ❝ my name is leif, ❞ he offers, holding the door open for her to step into the surf-brightened sun. ❝ i’m from a country a long way from here, called leonster. and you are... ❞ 

          and as it swings shut again, the sparkling shoreline of endless promise swallows them and their voices both.

the mountains in the center of the thracian subcontinent are, along with the silessian mountain range, one of the oldest mountain ranges in jugdral. as such, the people of the thracian peninsula have always had a close relationship with these mountains; stemming from traditional lifestyles spanning long before the time of the crusaders, the southern half of the manster district is well known throughout the jugdrali continent for its lucrative gem mining industry, to the point where many famous gemstones across the land originated here or were cut and shaped by thracian craftsmen. accordingly, gemcraft has historically been a large contributor to the wealth of the kingdom of alster and the free city of tahra, which lack the climate and fertile terrain of the northern kingdoms / cities.

though gemstone mining has been a core part of this region for many centuries predating the split of north and south thracia, the division of the peninsula changed the way gemstones shaped thracian history. the mountains became the dividing line between the two countries, and their bounty became a symbol of the stark and intense wealth disparity between the two and the ensuing enmity.

darklingdragon​:

Ears and eyes had grown accustomed to shutting out the world. They do so here, the noises of celebration a whimpering buzz in the background of focus. It isn’t until a stray swing in which her hand grazes past the pinata. It was an inclination that something wasn’t right and she lifts the blindfold in nervous curiosity. 

Realization sets in slow and her grip tightens on the stick in frustration - how could she let herself be so foolish? She’s supposed to know. Myrrh takes takes a few steps towards the other student and the conman, but the moment a sound leaves her mouth he gives her a nasty look and it immediately snaps shut, causing her to take a step back. 

If only Ephraim were here… he would know what to do. But… he wasn’t here. He’d want her to be able to be okay without him (because he wouldn’t be around forever, she knew). 

With another sidelong glance at the other student, Myrrh frowns. He must be so nice to stand up for someone he didn’t even know for no reason.And over a silly game too… Mustering up whatever remained of her confidence, she marched back up to the conman, nervous grip white-knuckled on the stick; any more and it might break.

“My gold… return it to me.”

          either tension or her own realization brings the girl over, and keen comprehension beyond her years sets into a youthful face, gleaming in eyes like the heart of violet spinel from the southern mountains of the bloodstone belt back home. he doesn’t think much of it at the moment, but turns an equally severe look on the cheating vendor whose disdain grows as he looks from, it seems, one righteous child to another. ❝ return it to...? pff, kids thieving from honest folk now? you don’t like the prize, you ought to run along. first your friend here damaged my goods, then you cheat the rules and accuse me. ❞

          something goes red-blind inside him at the witness, almost unable to believe it. is this man just stupid enough to think he’s not in the wrong, or has he conned so many that he’s perfected his victim act? posture straightens; shoulders broaden as he takes another step forward; though the conman surpasses him in years, he stands shorter and slighter than the boy-king even without his armor. ❝ i saw how you run this game, sir, and it’s anything but honest. you should be ashamed. ❞

       ★   //    FRUIT HEADCANONS.  /   @rivclry

these are all pretty loaded questions for leif and blend together, so at the risk of meshing stuff and going on tangents, i’ll split them up.

verseandrhyme​:

Mitama, a fool in poet’s clothing, gave herself no time to watch the nobleman’s reaction to his own creation before she had taken taste of it herself. (She was certain now that he had to be a nobleman, no one she knew of lower stations would tend towards such diction lest they wasted their time trapped in another realm doing nothing but reading, and that seemed to be an experience exclusive to Hoshido and Nohr.)

Mitama wished she had not let herself be tempted by the idea of a so free a meal.

She began coughing as the spread touched her tongue, immediately dropping the rice cake from her hand as though it had burned her. Her hand bumped a glass of water she did not recall fetching, but did not hesitate to drink. “I would certainly hope not, with a taste like that! I would find myself concerned if that was my common meal!” She took up a rice cake that was still untainted by the spread and quickly took another bite, hoping to remove the offending taste.

“A valiant effort but…it seems that your efforts did not support your imagination.” She mused, glancing wearily at her own plate of fish. Her father’s monologues of hubris and vanity echoed faintly in the back of her head as she used a fork to move a portion of the fish to her plate. All the same, it could not truly be that bad! She had watched her caretakers prepare meals plenty of times, surely she had retained some of that magic that they dealt in.

She cautiously ate a small piece of the fish. She could not even attempt to hide the grimace that it dragged out of her.

“Indescribable / the reckoning is coming / it tastes like poison.”

          imagination may have overestimated his skill here, but it certainly doesn’t balk at providing him with ample pictures of disapproving faces from back home — the village mothers in fiana who cooked chickpeas without even looking, his own castle chefs. he envisions how nanna would never let him hear the end of it if she so much as peered at the lemony gruel he’d just attempted. halfheartedly, he tries to defend himself against projected criticisms; leonster’s prince doesn’t entail being leonster’s foremost cook! —king, right. not a prince anymore. he’s just grateful that none of them are here, his only witness a girl who’s none the wiser... right?

          curiously, he watches her move to sample her own dish, bracing himself for the success that will sink his own failure all the lower, only to be caught off guard as she immediately blanches instead. and somehow, to hear her disparage her own efforts paints over whatever earlier indignation she’d brought out in him with a sound halfway to disbelief. ❝ it can’t be that bad, ❞ he remarks, stepping forward to take a thin slice by the tail for himself. the reckoning? she’s just being dramatic.

          as it turns out, he’s not sure he’d call it poison, but... that flavor.           and in such amounts, too.

          silence stretches, pointed and dreary, as he gazes into some distant space. he swallows. ❝ ... i’ve, um, i’ve had worse. ❞ which isn’t a lie, really; he’d eaten a variety of things when he was younger. ❝ but i’m not sure i’d want to have more of that. ❞ 

        ★   //    FRUIT HEADCANONS.  /   @vonvestra

while i wouldn’t say that leif is noncomplex as a person, he is earnest, and tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. the boy probably couldn’t lie his way out of leonster castle if somebody paid him. as a result, how he’s seen by others is typically a true reflection of who he is, in a general sense. when he’s content, he’ll show it; when he’s angry, he’ll show it. when he’s sad, he’ll also probably show it even if he’s trying not to. leif generally comes off personable, curious, humble, and courteous, all of which he is.

i think the meta-canon also tends to try to depict him as someone who comes off mature / wise beyond his years, which is also true in a sense. he’s been through a lot, and has the advantage that his attitude towards life doesn’t tend to lead to narrow-mindedness. i’d probably say how mature for his age he comes off depends on who he’s interacting with and the nature of the interaction. in the way that he thinks and questions and sees the world, he can seem older than his age, but in action, there are parts of him that are still boyish. not necessarily ‘ immature ’ ( tho like everyone, he has his moments ), but echoing of a kind of child-like innocence that he was never able to properly experience and thus grow out of.

i think also that a lot of his projected seriousness is also a product of his canon surroundings. back home, he has few peers his age who hadn’t also similarly grown up too fast. other than that, he’s surrounded by adults. this influences the way that he acts and how he conducts himself as well. living in leonster castle, the source of his poor mental health, and surrounded by the people and memories of those worst months, also exacerbates his more grave and reflective side. being at garreg mach and being around normal kids his age for once brings out a more youthful side of him that isn’t shown much elsewhere, except ( i hc ) in occasional moments of levity with his closest friends during the war.